Dirty Little Secrets (31 page)

“You still bite your nails when you are stressed,” he said.

She shrugged. “Sometimes.”

He reached for her hands. His long fingers gently coaxed her palms to flatten against his. Heat radiated through her. Her pulse quickened. He was inches from her. It had been over ten years since he had been this close to her, but the effect was the same. Why did he have to be so handsome? Why did he have to have a mouth she never tired of kissing and hands that felt perfect against her body? No, it wasn’t just that; it was something else, something more primal that drew her to him. They were like magnets drawn to each other, pushing aside everything in their path.

“You are stressed a lot, it seems,” he commented as he lifted her hand and examined her nails.

“I am going to stop once I get this sorted,” she said. She pulled her hands away and pushed them to her sides, away from his reach.

“No, you won’t. You will move on to another cause, another victim. There will always be someone you need to rescue.”

Her back stiffened. Those were the same words he had said when he left. God, she was so stupid. Nothing had changed. He was still the same man who ran when things got tough, just like her dad, and her granddad, just like every other man in her life. “Some of us see a problem and try to fix it. Others run.”

“No, some of us are smart enough to get out.”

She sighed. The trip down memory lane was getting her nowhere. “I just need your help and then I will go back to—what was it you said?—wallowing in the shit of my childhood.”

“If he was involved in drugs trafficking, he should be punished. There are consequences to every decision,” he said pointedly.

She didn’t have time for this. They would never see eye to eye on this or anything else that mattered. Liam always thought addicts should be punished and she saw addiction as a disease. “He doesn’t deserve to die. He could be executed. The punishment doesn’t fit the crime.”

“Perhaps he should have considered that before he started dealing drugs in the UAE.”

“Honestly, Liam, you should know better than anyone—”

He put his hand up to stop her. “Let’s get one thing straight. Don’t ever tell me what I should know or not know. Unlike you, I do not live in my past. If you mention it again, I will have you on the next flight to London. Do you understand?” A chill ran down her spine. His voice was so low she would have struggled to hear him if she were not sitting beside him, yet he made the threat clear.

She nodded. He had changed so much. Liam was impossibly hard now. Once upon a time she could read his face, feel every emotion he felt. There was never a need for words; she just knew. But now everything about him was granite and impenetrable: his body, his face, his feelings. The realisation pulled at her, reminded her how much she had missed him. Even now, after all his betrayal, there were few things she wanted more than to spend another day with the Liam she knew before. She tried for years to forget him but seeing him now made her miss the boy she had known even more because he had not just left her life; he didn’t exist any more.

“Do you understand me?” he asked again.

“Yes.”

“Good. Give me his name and I will make a few phone calls. I can’t promise anything but I will see what I can do to save your latest stray.”

She took a deep breath; relief washed over her. He had agreed to help. She had managed to get him onside without needing to lie to him. But now she needed to tell him. A nagging sense of guilt pulled at her. She should have told him who it was before, but she couldn’t. He would not have agreed if he had known who he was helping, but once Liam made a promise, he honoured it. “It’s Sam.”

“Sam Ashton?” he asked incredulously, the anger etched in his tan features.

She ignored the consuming desire to run, mostly because there was no place to go. She forced herself to look him square in the eyes. “Yes, Sam Ashton.”

“Christ, Sarah.” He ran a hand through his hair and swore. He was silent for a long time, just scrutinising her, and then he asked, “Are you screwing him?”

Her jaw dropped. She was sideswiped by the question. Why would he ask that? It took her a moment for her brain to engage again.

“Are you?” he demanded. His accent had slipped, gone broader.

“Careful—your Scottish is showing.”

“No, if I wanted to sound Scottish I would have said, ‘Right, hen, dinnae tell me you shagged him.’”